


To Days Gone By

by shannedo



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Manchester United, class of '92
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 18:52:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6251542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shannedo/pseuds/shannedo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dressing room was quiet again, the silence only permeated by the dripping of a shower head and the bouncing of his knee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Days Gone By

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redandgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/gifts).



> I wrote this last night after a frustrating 1-1 draw to West Ham andddddd yeh. It's a bit angry but also a bit hopeful. Let me know what you think.

The dressing room was quiet again.

Clumps of grass littered the floor, stamped off of boots in frustration and exhaustion. The air was still thick with steam from the showers. The whiteboard on the wall still displayed a corner kick routine, likely a pointless one.

His chest heaved as he let out a sigh, easing himself down onto the bench. His head lolled back against the wall and he squinted against the bright ceiling lights. Too bright for a lifeless room, the silence only permeated by the dripping of a shower head and the bouncing of his knee.

He'd said the draw was the deserved result. Hadn't said how they should never have been chasing the match at all. Hadn't said the boredom and apathy of it all made his stomach twist. Hadn't said, hadn't said.

So many conversations that everyone seemed to be having, except for the people that could do anything about it. So much going unsaid by important people, gritting their teeth because football was so trigger-happy these days.

_These days._

He sounded so old, Gary would laugh and elbow him in the ribs, if it wasn't for the miles and things left unsaid between them. All that needed to be said was 'It will come good,' but that didn't make the tension in the air ease.

He leaned back against the wall, the wave of exhaustion and defeat hitting him, his eyes flickering closed.

And he could see again - and hear again - days from long ago.

The ceiling lights shining through blonde hair, like sunshine. David - probably telling some story about someone he'd met who was on the cover of Vogue last month. He always found himself at the centre of attention, it was so hard not to listen to him, with a walk that said 'superstar' and a smile that said 'genuine.'

He could smell grass and soap and champagne - prerogatives of their dressing room. His own kit felt damp, stuck to his skin with the exertion of the game and with the spray of champagne Rio had managed to cover him in. The chanting and singing from the fans could still be heard, competing with his own teammates' chanting as they celebrated the reclaiming of _their_ trophy.

He could hear so much shouting. Rows aplenty, because success never came easily. There were a few different voices, but one in particular was the loudest and strongest. One that was coarse and well-versed in keeping eleven overpaid young men with inflated egos silent. Matter of fact, no nonsense. Gary and Ryan would often try to emulate that authority down the years on the pitch, Paul himself would often employ that cut-the-shit tone. And they weren't ashamed of their impersonations, would never be ashamed of having one of the best mentors the game had ever seen.

And he could see his two best friends. Could hear them too. It hadn't always been like that, he'd spent years thinking the one with curly hair was a bit of a nasty prick and the one with just an all-round terrible haircut was just like his brother but without the smile and friendliness and other nice person stuff. But now, they were Giggsy and Gaz, mucking about with a ball. Ryan was safe in the knowledge that Gary had never bet him in a one on one unless Ryan let him and Gary knew his friend had to listen to his captain unless he wanted the gaffer to know what _exactly_ happened to Ronnie's skinny jeans. Now, he loved them so much. One like the brother he never had and the other in ways he couldn't understand, let alone describe.

_'Well, that doesn't mean much. Your vocab is limited to grunts and what exactly you think of van Gaal,'_ Gary would say. They'd laugh, if Gary laughed anymore.

But what was the use in living in the past? He shook himself, blinking against the bright lights. He was due at Ryan's, had agreed to come over for a post match drink on the grounds that Ryan wouldn't tell the cleaners that some wistful ex-player was loitering in the dressing rooms.

So he pushed himself up onto his feet, taking one last look around. He recognised the scuffs on the skirting boards - Rio and/or Vida, delete as appropriate. A big scratch mark on the ground - someone forgetting how to walk on studs, he'd put money on Schmeich. He blustered out another sigh and made for the door, leaving behind great memories. He had even greater hopes in the future, if being hopeful wasn't yet completely absurd.

But as he walked down the hall, he paused at the office that came up on his left. The door was open, the room recently vacated and two empty wine glasses on the table, left for the staff. And he let himself relive one more memory, because this one was especially good.

He'd sat on one side of the desk with Sir Alex by his side, Giggsy sitting opposite them in the big leather chair. Nicky stood at his shoulder, leaning against a cabinet, probably not even realising the way he kept touching Ryan's shoulder, because he was comfortable with that and comfortable with the company he was in. Gary, in his smart suit, was sharing a bottle of red wine with his brother as the rest of them drank Sir Alex's signature post match whiskey. Ryan had gotten a bottle of Glenrothes Select Reserve especially for now.

_'Pour me another dram, son,'_ the gaffer had said. Ryan did just that, but when he went to put down the bottle, it was met with a protesting squawk. _'That's no a feckin' dram! Gee's it here. Bleedin' English, y'call that a dram-'_

  _'Oi, Welsh!'_ Ryan protested, folding his arms over his chest like he was a little boy again at his scolding.

Scholesy was about to ask how on Earth Ryan had managed to trick him into coming back to work with him for the month but really, he already knew. Ryan had come to him with bright eyes and a dreaming mind and there was no way he could say no. It was the same reason for his failed retirement, whether it was his inability to let go or simply not wanting to.

Paul, Ryan, all of them in this room, they could never say no to Manchester United, could never turn their back. This club meant so much to them, it was their happiest memories and the more painful ones too, which only made the good times better. It wasn't addiction or being stuck in the past, it was just love.

Sometimes, love hurt. It was wishful thinking, gripping onto something that was hurting you.

But more often than not, it's what kept him standing. It's what kept them from feeling weak or useless. It kept the world spinning round.

And, as he pushed himself away from the doorframe and went on up the corridor, he knew he wouldn't have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I didn't even mention Phil by nAME I'm horrible.  
> 2\. Rio was talking recently about how they all used to take the piss out of Cristiano's skinny jeans and they all act like 7 year olds so I imagine there were shenanigans  
> 3\. I'm not from Glasgow, I live further north, I'm sorry if Fergie's speech is a bit too teuchter!  
> 4\. I have close personal ties to Glenrothes Select Reserve so pls forgive my shameless little dream that it was perhaps drunk in Sir Alex's Old Trafford office at some point ggjjghjfkk  
> 5\. For Rach bc I can't write a Scholesy POV and NOT gift it to you. I hope it wasn't too OOC!! Love you <333


End file.
